


One Bargain Harold Could Not Agree to (and Five He Could)

by Zaniida



Series: Mature Readers Only [6]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Check End Notes for Chapter-Specific Content Warnings (the spoilery ones anyway), Comfort from Unusual Sources, Denise's Delight, Emotional Reactions to Stress, Episode: s02e04 Triggerman, Ethics, Manipulation, Negotiations, Panic Attack, Physiological Reactions to Stress, Soul-Searching, crying Finch, suffocation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2018-12-31 14:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12134205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: "Even so, everything does come with a cost.""I assumed there would be.  What is it you want?"In the original episode, Elias asked for a chess partner.  But that bargain could have gone so many different ways….





	1. (Zero): Lines in the Sand

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Silk Stockings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/461091) by [KaticaLocke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaticaLocke/pseuds/KaticaLocke). 
  * Inspired by [Bordeaux and Black Cherry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/479514) by [KaticaLocke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaticaLocke/pseuds/KaticaLocke). 



> I have no idea if the chapter numbering system is going to screw this all up, but my intention was for chapter 0 to be the opening "what Harold can't agree to" chapter, and chapters 1-5 would be the different deals that Harold _could_ agree to.
> 
> I've run the panic attack description past a person who actually deals with panic attacks, but doesn't tend to hyperventilate while having them. They helped me with a few changes. It's still a fanciful way of dealing with the problem -- _don't try this at home_ and all -- but it amused me to have it play out this way, and my source seems to think it's not _too_ far out there….
> 
> As for the inspirations, they're more for a later chapter, but the parallels are strong enough that I figured I'd include them. (Please note: _Silk Stockings_ is marked **No Archive Warnings Apply** , but should be marked at least **Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings** \-- it's got some of the strongest Non-Con content I've ever seen between John and Harold, it's just that by the time they get to the sex, it's consensual. But _man_ , the earlier stuff is a power play of John refusing to accept Harold's boundaries or body autonomy.)

Given their predicament, it was a necessary move, but Harold had to scrupulously suppress any outward sign of his nerves as he waited for Carl Elias to enter the visitation room. Since the crime lord’s arrest, Harold had been studying his continued influence over the underside of the city; far from diminishing, it had grown broader, more robust. When Elias had stayed his hand for decades before striking at the heart of the Russian mob, he had proven his patience; when he had found ways to leverage the corruption among New York’s finest, he had proven his cunning. Even now, from within a jail cell, he was uniquely positioned to run his affairs from the shadows, and Harold couldn’t help wondering if going to Rikers had been part of his plan all along.

It would be foolish to underestimate a man that perceptive, a man with a mind that demonstrably keen. Yet Harold was about to let Elias know that they were desperate enough to seek his help, which would give him the edge in negotiations. And on top of that, Harold was about to break one of his core guidelines, and hand over a piece of knowledge that few others were ever privy to: the ability to identify Harold himself by sight.

As uncomfortable as the idea was, it, too, was necessary: Harold needed to negotiate face to face, to see Elias’s expression while they bargained, and to be prepared to change tactics based on whatever information he could glean on the fly. Moreover, he needed to ensure that others could not intercept their communication. And Elias was unlikely to take the offer seriously without understanding how the messenger fit into the picture.

But the moment Harold identified himself -- not by name, but by association -- Elias’s smile grew noticeably bigger, and the predatory nature of his gaze shone through for just a moment before he dialed it back to the appearance of affability.

“I suppose I should thank you for saving my life,” he said, then added -- with no undertone of bitterness -- “as well as my current accommodations.”

Harold hadn’t missed the way that Elias seemed to have the guards in his pocket. It was hardly a stretch to imagine that he found prison life nearly as pleasant as being free.

Their small talk didn’t last long before Elias went straight to the point: “What brings you to see me?”

“We need help,” Harold started, “with a minor boss whose organization may not be under your control -- yet.” It was an admission of weakness, to be sure, but also calculated to appeal to Elias’s vanity. Doubtless the kingpin would pick up on that, but Harold didn’t think it would matter: Elias wasn’t the type to get insulted by a fellow manipulator, and the flattery itself was centered in truth, implying that a matter like this could easily be handled using the resources at Elias’s disposal. “We hoped we could persuade you to… withhold your assistance.”

“So you want me to shut down Massey’s little hunting party?” Elias barely paused -- Harold had been right about how quickly he took in data, came to decisions. “I suppose I do owe you something for saving my life. Even so… everything does come with a cost.”

“I assumed there would be.”

This was where the tipping point lay. A negotiator as shrewd as Elias would have a keen sense of the boundaries, know enough to push a little but not make an offer so extreme that they wouldn’t, ultimately, agree to it. The knowledge that Harold had access to was a power Elias didn’t understand, but coveted; he wanted an inroad into their operation, and this was his first significant chance to get his hooks into them. Part of the reason Harold had accepted this plan was knowing that it was an unprecedented chance to get their hooks into Elias, as well. There were potential advantages to the alliance, even in a small and controlled form, and, at this stage, there was no telling whose team would benefit most.

Prior to setting out, Harold had reasoned out his best guess as to what Elias’s price might be. He’d prepared a mental list of some twenty likely bargains, and a hundred or so unlikely ones, thus knowing ahead of time where he stood on whatever issues Elias might raise. In this way, he’d have some additional armor against Elias’s maneuvers, and be less likely to get coaxed into agreeing to something truly out of bounds.

“What is it you want?”

“Well,” Elias said affably, “as I said, I have no need of possessions. But having a few key people in my pocket… that’s a far more valuable commodity. This isn’t the first time you’ve come to me for help, and I rather thought you would have stopped seeing me as an asset after that affair with the baby, and the one with the detective’s son.”

“You know our aim, Mr. Elias,” Harold said, portraying more calm than he felt. “When it comes to ensuring the safety of those we protect, at times we must resort to… less savory means.”

The grin that never seemed to quite leave Elias’s face spread out a bit, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with what Harold assumed was delight. “Of course,” he said, “although, I must pause to wonder if your concern is more the safety of your client, or the safety of your asset.”

Holding Elias’s intense gaze, Harold tried to maintain the bland expression that had served him well in previous encounters with dangerous people in power -- people who wanted more information than he was willing to give them. John was so much more than an asset by now, but letting Elias know that would give him far too much leverage. As Elias studied him, Harold could only hope that he wasn’t giving much away.

With a quick moue, Elias leaned back in his seat. “So I could imagine that you don’t have the luxury of refusing whatever I might ask in return.”

“I suppose you’ll have to try me.”

“That I shall. You know, I’ve been paying attention to your movements through the city. Oh, not yours specifically,” he clarified, although Harold was certain that he hadn’t so much as blinked. “The Man in the Suit. Making quite a name for himself, our John. The police reports have been intriguingly devoid of detail, but a little browsing around and you start to get the picture of a man with a certain skill set. Special forces would be my guess. Covert ops.”

Harold continued to just stare at him.

“Now, it strikes me that a man of his abilities must have experience with assassination.” He leaned forward again, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Some people, I know, are… quite _distressed_ at the idea of the government taking direct action against a person’s life, no matter how great a danger that person might pose. Of course, they tend to be distressed by the act itself, whereas I think of it as a power that should not be in the hands of the government.”

Grateful for his habitual poker face, Harold managed to hold off his need to swallow until the reflex couldn’t be paired with that statement. Not only was Elias perilously close to the subject of the Machine -- a link that bound both Harold and John to the government, and a secret that Elias must never be allowed to know -- but Harold was starting to get the impression that the crime lord was leading him down a path that Harold knew they couldn’t afford to tread.

“Now, you are a man who has seen the dark side of humanity,” Elias continued. “You and I, we operate from the shadows; we observe the cancerous cell growth, the rabid dogs roaming the streets. I’m aware that our approaches to the problem are somewhat in opposition, but can we at least agree that there are some elements so toxic to society that they need to be excised before they can do innocent people irreparable harm?”

Harold’s stomach bottomed out, and he could only hope that he hadn’t gone noticeably pale as well. With pinpoint accuracy, Elias had picked up on a common element between them and employed it as an opening move -- and he probably wasn’t even aware of how close he’d gotten to the crux of Harold’s personal journey since the towers had come down.

* * * *

* * * * *

The attack hadn’t come close to touching Harold directly, but it had still changed the course of his life. When Nathan had hurried into the room, breaking Harold out of a coding coma, and switched on the news. When Harold had seen for himself the explosions, the smoke, the helpless people falling to their deaths because it was better to jump than to suffocate or burn.

Prior to that evening, without even stopping to think about it, he’d gotten to a place where he saw himself as above the masses, outside the problems that other people had to deal with. He’d never been an evil man, never heartless, simply -- oblivious. Brilliant enough to become rich, and rich enough to lead a sheltered life, not caring about what didn’t affect him personally.

But that evening, sleepless, alternately staring out at the vacant skyline and down at the tumult in the streets, he’d had to come to grips with his place among humanity: their shared vulnerability to attack; their shared impotence in the face of such savagery. Humans rushing about like ants, trying to save their own lives, when the only certainty was death -- and death could strike, literally, out of the blue.

And yet… what to make of these people rushing _into_ the smoke? Not the firefighters, the first responders -- that was their job, after all -- but the random people who had run _toward_ the danger, instead of away? Some of them doubtless had loved ones in the towers, but surely not all of them. People were risking their lives alongside the better trained, doing whatever they could to make the tragedy a little less hard to bear.

In those acts of selflessness, he had seen people with little to give giving all that they had, and he had come to understand -- perhaps for the first time -- the proper role of his own gifts.

Harold had been born with an intelligence few could match; he hadn’t earned it, didn’t deserve it, had used it selfishly for most of his life -- but it was his to employ. Now, instead of amassing wealth, instead of hunting down vulnerabilities and breaching firewalls just to revel in his own cleverness, he could put his talents to use defending the innocent, putting a stop to the aggressors.

The protection he designed had not come without cost. Defending some meant destroying others; he had had to make peace with that awareness. Yes, people were going to die. Yes, the ones the Machine targeted probably deserved it. Yes, there were alternatives that the government would never pursue, because it was easier and cheaper to snuff out a human life than to imprison them, and assassination didn’t risk them getting out into the general public again. It was even possible that the Machine’s predictions would make the government _less_ likely to fund preventative measures, such as better education and a social safety net, so that fewer people got driven to the kind of hate and desperation that terrorism required. Why bother with expensive programs when a bullet was so cheap?

Was he sorry to have created the Machine? At times. He’d done his best to shield it from abuse, and yet there was no way to shield it from its core function: pointing the government at terrorists. The fact that Harold was not directly involved in the assassinations didn’t absolve him of the guilt of having created the means.

Even so, he could acknowledge the good it did, and the necessity of prioritizing hundreds of innocent lives over the individuals bent on destroying them. He could even appreciate the intangible benefits: Living in a world with less public awareness of terrorism meant less fear, less stress, less paranoia about when and where the next 9/11 might occur.

If he had to live with the guilt of having given power to the wrong people, or setting up a system that could target individuals for assassination without even a trial… so be it.

And yet… he couldn’t let that line of logic push him into the kind of solutions Elias was hinting at. As uncomfortable as he was with letting the government murder its own citizens, at least it had _some_ level of checks and balances. Or, at least, that thought was something he had to cling to, just to sleep at night. Putting such power in the hands of individuals, working behind the scenes… unconscionable. Elias could try to leverage the calculation all he wanted, point out the benefits of the act -- but Harold would never accept murder as a solution for anything.

* * * *

* * * * *

The moment stretched long as they stared at each other. Harold refused to give Elias a clear answer that the man could twist up on him, and Elias, for his part, seemed to be studying him intently, gauging his reactions that went unspoken.

“Hmmm,” Elias mused, finally. “You’re afraid to voice the truth, there. If you truly believed that I was wrong, you wouldn’t have any trouble saying so. I don’t blame you for being hesitant, though. It’s a scary thought, people having the power to just snuff out lives.” He glanced around. “And here I am, living among the type of people who’ve done it. Not a very pleasant world, let me tell you.”

Shaking his head, Elias met Harold’s eyes again. “These men, they murder for personal reasons: anger, revenge… even just for fun. When the government kills people unlawfully, they do it out of fear, and quite often they target the wrong people; they can’t see into the shadows, can’t find the ones we should _truly_ be afraid of. It’s up to people like us -- down here in the trenches, able to see the true face of evil, the true harm being done -- to step in and do something about it. Not for revenge, not out of fear, but as an agent of _justice_. There are people that the law can’t touch who are so harmful to society that they need to be taken out of it.

“You and I, we’re the ones who know about these people, and can do something to stop them. We’re the ones who _should_ , because no one else _can_.”

By this point, it was fairly clear that there was no deal to be made, but Harold stayed silent. He had to let the man lay all his cards on the table, make his entire point crystal clear before Harold either countered it or just walked away. If there was no hope of securing his help in their current case, at the very least Harold would have information about what sort of man they might be dealing with in the future.

Whatever message Elias gleaned from Harold’s silence, he took it as a cue to launch into the full sales pitch: a particular force of darkness working from the underbelly of New York. Murderer, many times over, and not the clean-and-pretty sort, either. Expert in torture techniques. Bomb-maker (though not to the level that he’d attracted the attention of the Machine, or he’d have already been dealt with). A man who dealt in slaves, including sex slaves, including children; dozens of children moving through his operation each month.

And for the personal touch -- Harold felt the knife _twist_ \-- the man was connected to the abduction of Leila.

There was no legal recourse to stop him: No one would testify against him, and no charges had ever stuck. Harold was reminded of Andrew Benton, the rapist, and how John had plowed him straight into police headquarters with a car full of cocaine and he’d still managed to walk free that same evening. There were some people that the law couldn’t touch, and that was, in a way, where he and John came in… but not like this.

The Machine had been created to detect massive threats and point out how to eliminate them. After Nathan’s death, Harold had done his level best to save as many individuals as he could, and, once he’d found a partner, to take care of threats where they could -- but not, as Elias was suggesting, by killing them. Not even when the plan was foolproof and the benefits obvious.

Silently, Harold waited until Elias had laid out his plan in full, and looked to Harold for a response. Then he raised his chin.

“We are not assassins, Mr. Elias,” he said firmly. “We will not trade one life for another; it is antithetical to everything we do, everything we stand for.”

“But you _have_ killed,” Elias pressed. “John has killed, in your service -- he may _prefer_ to shoot out a kneecap, but that’s not always effective in putting down the threat.”

“In the heat of combat, to protect an innocent -- yes, John will kill. I trust that he does so only when he cannot see any other way. But we are not in the business of preemptive strikes, nor are we here to sanitize the world. While I will admit that we fall under the definition of vigilantes, we are vigilantes with a singularly narrow focus.”

“So you will drop everything to save a single life, yet take no action to spare the hundreds who cross this man’s path every year -- many of whom are denied the luxury of an easy death.”

An effective jab -- yet deliberately incomplete, and Harold wasn’t fool enough to simply dog Elias’s steps in this debate. “If we were to attempt to take out every major criminal in New York, surely your name would be near the top of the list. Putting you in jail has not stopped your efforts to take over this city, and I doubt we could arrange for a more effective captivity; the only other options are exile, which we could hardly enforce, or death. Perhaps you should be pleased that we are not that type of vigilante.”

Leaning forward, Elias ran a hand over his mouth. “Is it your opinion, then, that I should be concerned about ethics only insofar as it impacts me? That I should never press for an ethical standard that might turn around and bite me? Do you have to be ethically pure yourself to propose a higher ethical standard?”

“Your concept of ethics is questionable, given that you’re trying to persuade me to kill a man.”

“Whose death would prevent the misery of countless others. He’s not a nice man; you don’t need to defend him.”

“And even if I were to suppose that you were proposing this with no ulterior motive -- that you had nothing to gain from my compliance -- we are still talking about taking a life.”

“When there’s no other way to stop him, yes, we are. Kill him, and save many others. It’s not a difficult calculation.”

The worst part about this debate was that Harold could appreciate Elias’s argument. He could never agree to it, but it wasn’t outside a reasonably ethical viewpoint; it simply crossed a line that Harold had drawn for himself, as one of the few boundaries he could truly cling to. In this room, that boundary was acting like a lifeline, keeping him from succumbing to Elias’s reasoning.

“Where does it stop?” he asked. “When we move beyond the imminent threats and start picking out targets who simply seem likely to do harm… how far do we go? It’s not for us to play God, Mr. Elias. And even if we eliminate this man, it will simply cause a power vacuum, and bring in other forces; who knows how much worse they might be?”

“So you choose not to act because you cannot know the effect in advance?”

“We acted to save your life, and look how many have died because of that action.”

“Yet you still save lives.”

“ _Save_ lives, Mr. Elias. Not _take_ lives.”

Elias nodded soberly, the grin gone from his face. “So that is where we stand, is it? You come to me for help in a dire situation. I could have asked for money, or information, or any number of other bargains, and you might have handed them over despite knowing that I’d be using them to further my own criminal enterprises. But instead, I lay out for you a nearly foolproof plan to take out a man who, by all accounts, is one of the most evil, destructive forces in this entire city -- and that’s too much for you, _that_ crosses a line. Better you keep your conscience clear than actually stop a killer.”

Drawing in a breath, Harold got to his feet. “If that is the only trade you are willing to offer….”

“It’s the one that offers the greatest benefit to the people of this city.”

“Then we are done here.” Harold pushed the chair in neatly, and turned to go.

Before he was quite to the door, Elias’s voice rang out again, disarmingly calm. “If you walk out of here now, I’ll triple the bounty on their heads.”

Dully, Harold nodded. “And now it is clear what sort of man we are dealing with.” He signaled the guards.

* * * *

* * * * *

Once outside the complex, Harold triggered his earpiece. “Mr. Reese, I’m afraid things have gotten exponentially worse.”

Reese’s voice answered almost instantly. “He wouldn’t accept the offer?”

“He tried to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse, and… I refused it.”

“Probably for the best. I trust your judgment, Finch.”

“He’s upped the bounty on you -- tripled it. John, be careful -- I--”

“Gotta go,” Reese said abruptly, and the line cut off, leaving Harold alone on the island.

 

The bus back to the mainland was uneventful; Harold was glad to have that little layer of anonymity between him and Elias’s forces. Two stops past where he’d parked, he left the bus, and then went through some connected businesses and over a couple streets before slowly doubling back toward the car, his laptop bag weighing heavily on his shoulder.

The enormity of what had happened was slow to hit him, but he couldn’t hold it off forever. Elias was their enemy now, far more directly than he had ever been in the past. The bounty from two different crime lords would make it all but impossible for John to save Riley and Annie. But even knowing that, John wouldn’t just abandon them -- so tonight might well be the end of the line for him as well. The end of everything they’d been able to do with the numbers.

By taking the ethical high ground, Harold had set the stage to watch their whole enterprise burn to ashes, all in a single day. Was it worth it? He wasn’t even sure that his decision _was_ the ethical high ground. Would it have been that terrible an act, assassinating a demonstrably evil man? But he knew, bone-deep, that it would never stop at just one man. Cross that threshold, and what lay open before him was an endless chasm, the infinite supply of men the world would be better off without. Again, he had to ask himself, where would it stop? And how much collateral damage would be acceptable, in the hunt to eradicate such men?

Even if it meant John’s death tonight, and Harold returning to the impotence of a middle-aged cripple with a Cassandra complex, it had been right to refuse that path. But the consequences--

His phone rang. He dug it out clumsily, and realized that his hands were shaking. Vaguely, he wondered how long he had been shaking; perhaps since leaving the bus, perhaps since turning his back to Elias. It took a couple tries to hit the answer button.

“Yes, Detective?” At least his voice was reasonably steady.

“Massey’s on the move,” said Fusco.

It took a moment for the name to register. “Do you know where he was headed?”

“Nah -- he must have slipped out the back.”

Should he call John, let him know? No -- whatever he was doing, John didn’t need the distraction right now. And what with the bounty, John would already be on the alert, so even if Massey caught up with him, he’d be ready for it.

_Please, John, be ready for it._

There were pins and needles across his shoulders, running down his arms. It was suddenly too hot, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. What could he do to help John? He could track Massey -- when he got back to the library, he’d look up the cameras, and--

“Glasses?”

Oh. He glanced at his phone -- still Fusco. “Ah… thank you. Call me if he returns.” Not waiting for an answer, he fumbled at the screen until it hung up, and slipped it into his pocket. Perhaps he should have told Fusco about the increased bounty, but what could the detective do about it? What could anyone do now?

He ducked into a quiet alley and leaned against the wall, feeling the world narrow and spin around him. Closing his eyes made it worse, so he kept them open and fixed his gaze on the graffiti on the other wall: big, bright, bubbly letters spelling out terms of anger and abuse. Evidence of the lesser cancers in the city, the gangs that felt the need to mark their territory openly -- “flashy,” as Elias had said. _Relics like Massey, they never learn. There's so much more to be gained by staying out of the limelight, in the background. Those are the people you have to watch out for._

And Harold had just spit in the face of one of the most powerful hidden forces in the city.

Panting in rapid, shaky breaths, Harold wished that he had Bear with him. But of course he couldn’t have brought the dog to Rikers, even if he had driven in himself. Bear was at the library, faithfully waiting for him. If he could only get there. And if Elias’s ire at being refused reached far enough, perhaps Harold would never get back to the library.

The image of Bear lying there waiting for him, waiting by a door that would never open, in a building that no one ever went to because it technically didn’t exist… Harold let out a sob and slid down against the brick, his legs no longer able to support him. He buried his face in his hands.

“Guess that settles _that_ question,” came a Brooklyn-accented voice from the edge of the alley. Harold’s head shot up and his breath came even faster as he took in Marconi standing there, regarding him, phone pressed to his ear. Was the man here to kill him? To inform him that John was already dead? To tempt him with another offer, try once more to bring him under Elias’s control?

Unable to handle anything more at this point, Harold just looked down, eyes squeezed shut and shoulders tight. A moment later, he heard the footsteps coming for him, and the mobster crouched beside him, within arm’s reach but barely.

“Hey, Boss,” Marconi said quietly, with uncharacteristic concern, “I think you gave him a panic attack.”

Harold shuddered but didn’t move. A moment later, he heard a light beep.

“You’re on speaker, Boss.”

“I called off the bounty,” Elias’s voice said. “Anyone who takes Massey up on it is going to answer to me. I can’t guarantee that it’ll stop the manhunt, but it should make things easier on John.”

The words didn’t make any sense. Harold’s ears were ringing; his breath sounded loud and harsh, drowning out other sounds.

“Anthony,” came Elias’s voice, “see if you can calm him down, and call me back when you do.”

“See what I can do, Boss,” Marconi said. “You want it gentle, or fast?”

“We aren’t exactly friends; I doubt he’s gonna feel safe with you coaching him through it. Don’t be too rough.”

“You got it, Boss.” Another phone beep.

A moment later there was a hand covering Harold’s mouth. His eyes flew open and he tried to pull away, but the hand followed with firm pressure and then he was pressing himself against the wall, trapped, unable to even turn his head. Thumb and finger reached up and pinched his nose, cutting off the rest of his air.

Scrabbling at the hand, the arm, he found it fixed, unyielding. Eyes wide with terror, he looked up and found Marconi studying him, brow furrowed.

“I could smother you,” the man said calmly -- and Harold whimpered into the suffocating palm, wrenching both hands futilely against the iron grip. Unperturbed by his struggles, the mobster continued, “Wouldn’t even be hard. But that’s not what I’m doing.”

Locking eyes with Harold, Marconi released his nose, but kept the hand over his mouth. “You’re breathing _too fast_ ,” he stressed. “It’s messing up your insides; you need more CO2. Need to take slower breaths -- or hold your breath for a while, if you can manage that.”

Hold his breath when he already couldn’t get enough air? Was the man _insane_? Harold dug his short, manicured, practically _useless_ nails into the mobster’s skin, somehow managing to draw blood -- but Marconi didn’t budge, didn’t even _flinch_. “I’m not doing this to hurt you,” the mobster maintained, in defiance of all logic. “Not trying to smother you. I’m trying to keep you from letting out all the CO 2. Your body _needs_ that stuff. Can you understand that? The Boss wants me to _help_ you.”

Shuddering, Harold squeezed his eyes shut again. His arms fell limply at his sides; whatever strength he had left had to go to his lungs, struggling to suck air in, push it out again. He was dizzy, desperate, focused on nothing at all but the overwhelming need to _breathe_.

Marconi was still speaking -- hadn’t stopped speaking, and sometimes the words made it through to Harold’s brain. “Might be easier to just knock you out for a while. Give your system a chance to calm down. But I don’t think I need to do that. You can get through this. It’s scary, but it’s not gonna kill you.”

Utterly at Marconi’s mercy, Harold felt his heart trying to break out of his rib cage. _This was how he was going to die_.

“…flooded with too much oxygen,” he made out, barely, over the rushing in his ears. “You can’t process oxygen without CO2. I know it feels like you can’t breathe -- that’s _why_.”

 _I can’t breathe because you’re suffocating me_ , Harold wanted to scream at him. But, bizarrely, he was starting to feel a little less like that was true. Somehow, being forced to breathe more slowly was making him feel, progressively, like he was getting air again.

“Boss doesn’t want you dead,” Marconi was saying. “You _or_ John. I’m none too sure on the details, but he values you. If you can manage to calm down, he wants to talk with you.”

Elias -- Elias wanted to -- talk with him. _Breathe in_. Didn’t want him dead. _Breathe out_. He wasn’t going to die. John wasn’t -- _breathe in_ \-- John wasn’t in any more danger than was normal for them. _Breathe out_.

One of the most dangerous men he had ever met was holding a hand over his mouth, and doing it to try to _help_ him. Because Elias, an even more dangerous man, wanted him alive. And had lied to him about the bounty. For some reason. A test?

_Marconi had tailed him all the way from Rikers, and he hadn’t even noticed._

That thought almost made him panic all over again, but Marconi’s hand on his mouth kept him grounded. Marconi was Elias’s right-hand man, and he would never act outside the crime lord’s orders. Elias wanted him alive, so, for now, he was safe. As for earlier -- he’d been distracted, he could see that, and that might have been enough. Once this was over, he’d have to retreat to a disposable safe house and think through his movements, determine if there were a greater vulnerability at play. He couldn’t go back to the library until he was sure he wouldn’t be followed.

Marconi’s hand left his mouth, and Harold blinked up at him, startled. The mobster was still crouched beside him, focused on him, but he wasn’t blocking his airway anymore. It took Harold a moment to realize that his breaths were almost back to normal -- strong, yes, but more like he’d just walked up a flight of stairs, less like he’d been on the run for his life. And he wasn’t shaking anymore. A little sick to his stomach, but nothing like earlier -- and the pins and needles were receding.

“Better?” Marconi asked, and Harold felt grateful that his voice held neither mockery nor undue concern. For Elias’s pleasure, Marconi was doing what he could to solve the situation, but he wasn’t overly invested in Harold’s welfare -- nor was he trying to fake it. At the same time, he didn’t seem to find his weakness pitiful, didn’t seem to judge him for it: an unexpected mercy from the seemingly ruthless man.

After a moment’s inventory, Harold nodded slowly, keeping his breaths slow and even and full.

Marconi frowned. “We can go get you a drink, if it’ll help. Used to help-- well. I’ve seen it help people. Get a little water in your system, a little sugar. Give you a chance to focus.”

Even with the knowledge that Marconi didn’t mean him any harm -- _at present_ \-- Harold wasn’t eager to spend more time with him than he had to. He had to -- talk with Elias, understand what had happened. Reconnect with John. See if the numbers were safe. Get to his car.

Get off the ground. Check if he’d sat in anything… unsavory.

_Breathe._

Giving in, he slumped a little, and looked up. “If you would be so kind as to help me up,” he managed before his lungs gave out, “…I would be glad to join you for coffee.” It was a bit calming, the idea that Elias wouldn’t learn his beverage of choice. Even if he had to poker-face his way through a cream-and-sugared coffee.

Marconi reached out a hand, and used his other to brace Harold’s elbow while Harold pulled himself up. The pain in his back and hip caught Harold hard enough to stop his breath for a long moment, but once he was on his feet it faded, and he steadied himself. After nodding his thanks to Marconi, he glanced down at the place he’d been sitting, and was relieved to find nothing more than dry asphalt -- though, of course, that would be work enough for his dry cleaner.

Given how exhausted he felt, he was surprised how steady his voice was when he finally turned to Marconi and asked, “Shall we?”

Marconi’s lips quirked up into his normal expression again as they turned to go.

* * * *

* * * * *

The coffee was too sweet, of course, but it was warm and comforting nonetheless, and it helped Harold pull himself together. The diner was small, and quiet, and they had a good booth where Anthony could watch the door and Harold could watch a mirror with almost as much coverage. If he hadn’t been sitting across the table from a known murderer with a distinctive face, he would have felt quite safe here. Sheltered. Pleasantly anonymous.

Before the coffee was half gone, he figured it was time to face whatever Elias would throw at him next. The kingpin had seen fit to put him off-balance, building up his lie until the idea of it overwhelmed Harold, and then sending his right-hand man in to observe the results. Dealing with a man that unpredictable was… exhausting, and at the moment he lacked the resources to meet the battle with his usual set of skills. But this day would not be over until he had tried.

He gently set his coffee mug on the saucer, hearing the rattle of a very slight tremor as he did so, and pushed it aside. “If you would be so kind as to contact your boss,” he said, meeting Marconi’s eyes with unwavering dignity. This much, he could do right now: He could stay calm before the firing squad.

Marconi dialed the number. “Hey, Boss. Ready for that conversation?” After a short pause, he handed the phone to Harold, who took a deep breath and put it to his ear.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice steady.

“Good, good,” said Elias. “I trust Anthony wasn’t too rough on you?”

Dear god, he’d be having nightmares for _weeks_ , Marconi’s hands holding him down, choking him -- but he pushed those thoughts aside. “Unorthodox, but surprisingly effective.” Then, thinking that he hadn’t quite answered the question, he followed up with, “He did me no lasting harm,” and cast a glance at the man sitting across from him.

Marconi’s eyebrow quirked, and he gave a half nod as he slid out of the booth and then strolled past Harold toward the counter. As Harold watched him in the mirror, he noted the mobster’s careful glances maintaining control of the environment, and keeping an eye on Harold himself.

“Excellent,” Elias said, drawing Harold’s attention back to the phone. “Now, to begin with, you paid me well for tonight’s favor, so count this more as a… request, not a demand. But I can’t bring myself to refer to you by a name as obviously false as ‘Mr. Crane.’ If we’re going to negotiate, whether now or in the future, I would ask that you give me a name that actually belongs to you.”

Harold swallowed, and considered. There was too much at risk to let Elias track down his original identity… but then again, he had brought part of it with him anyway, like a comfort blanket he was loath to let go of. It was only a matter of time before Elias learned it -- and of all the things the crime lord could do to him, _referring to him more casually than their relationship warranted_ was hardly the thing to balk at.

“Harold is the name I was born to,” he said quietly. “It will suffice.”

“ _Harold_ ,” Elias said, as if rolling the term around on his tongue. “Well, Harold, I wasn’t sure how much you took in earlier, so I wanted to assure you that the bounty is off. There’s still one or two out there who didn’t get the message, but I’ll deal with them when I get a chance… well, whatever John doesn’t handle for himself, of course. I’m afraid I lied to you when I said I’d up the bounty; that was never my intention.”

Despite the warmth of the coffee still in his system, Harold felt his blood run cold. “You… deliberately asked for something you knew we’d be unwilling to give. To see what I’d do.”

“And now I know how far I can push you,” Elias replied, unrepentant. “That information was well worth the trouble of calling off the bounty.”

Whirling around in Harold’s head were too many thoughts -- too hard to grasp at any particular one long enough to examine it. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead, then jumped at the unexpected sound of Marconi laying fresh coffee mugs on the table. The mobster slid into the booth, and picked up his mug again, studied Harold for a moment, and then looked toward the street, sipping quietly.

The back of his hand showed a couple rows of bloodstains, tiny wounds from Harold’s fingernails, left while Harold had been trying to escape. Would they add to Marconi’s assortment of scars? Scars earned while trying to help someone, not hurt them… a strange thought, when it came to such a man. Once again, Harold was reminded of his propensity to pigeonhole: Marconi was far more complex than Harold tended to give him credit for.

The interruption had chased away even the little hints of thoughts that Harold had been considering. He let go of the possibilities and went with the obvious: “You knew you couldn’t push us to commit murder. How did that give you any information at all?”

Elias’s chuckle sounded warm enough. “You misunderstand me, Harold. I already had a good idea of how far I could push before you’d refuse to cooperate. What I needed to know was the other end of the equation: how far I could press you to the wall before you’d back down and finally say _yes_. And I wasn’t able to do it. You wouldn’t accept an act that went against your personal moral standard, even when I did my best to make it sound unethical to refuse. You upheld that standard even at tremendous cost to your team and enough stress on you, personally, that it drove you to a panic attack.”

His sigh held satisfaction, as well as a hint of fondness. “I put you through quite the wringer today, Harold, but I finally feel like I _understand_ you. That’s going to make a difference in negotiations; the next time you come to me for help, we’ll be better able to strike an agreement that suits _both_ our needs.”

For a long moment, Harold sat there with the phone pressed to his ear, processing. At length, he gathered himself enough to draw in a shaky breath, raise his eyebrows, and say, voice trembling, “After today… how could we ever trust you?”

“Did you trust me before today? That wasn’t _my_ impression.”

And, of course, the crime lord was right. They hadn’t come to Elias because they could trust him; they’d been out of options, and had some slim hope that he could make matters easier on them, turn an impossible situation into one they might be able to survive. And _he had done exactly that_ \-- while toying with Harold to get information that was worth the trouble. A less manipulative tactic would have left Elias wondering, but this… now he was sure of Harold’s character.

Whether this meant that he’d refrain from asking Harold to break his standards, or that he'd use those standards against him when arranging situations in the future… time would tell. Dealing with a man as crafty as Elias meant accepting that you were going to be blindsided by his tactics. But, as today had shown, the discomfort didn’t outweigh the benefit of having Elias as an asset.

The waitress came by, and Harold gave her a probably unconvincing smile as she laid out a plate of whole-wheat toast with little packets of jam, a little bowl of oatmeal with blueberries to the side, and two small smoothies, one off-white, the other tan.

Once she’d gone, Harold looked questioningly at Marconi, who indicated the smoothies.

“Peanut butter and banana, or just banana. I know peanuts are a common allergen, but it’s good protein.” He gave a half-shrug and kept sipping his coffee.

Harold frowned. “Mr. Elias, have you had panic attacks before?”

“What? Oh,” Elias said, and once again there was an unexpected fondness in his voice. “No, ah, an associate of ours -- a close friend, growing up -- had to deal with them sometimes. Anthony and I, we both learned a few tricks to help him through them. I take it he’s trying to feed you, now? You needn’t eat if you don’t care to, but sometimes it helps to restore your energy a bit. Adrenaline can take a lot out of you.”

Harold blinked. The words were a reminder of something all too easy to forget: For all that Elias had done, all that he might do in the future, for all the threat he represented, he was still just a man, like so many others. Not a supervillain -- and even as a criminal mastermind, he didn’t lack for those who followed him not out of fear, but out of loyalty. You didn’t secure loyalty that strong by accident.

His thoughts flew to Massey, a leader who built on fear, the shakiest of foundations. And Riley, trying to break free of that world. Riley, the hitman he’d so easily written off this morning. _Bad code_ , said Root’s voice in his mind -- and then his own voice: _I'm just saying you might not want to put yourself and her at risk for a man like that. He's a killer, Mr. Reese._

Suddenly, he saw himself staring down at a chessboard, at the end of a very long day. _I don’t think that anyone is worth more than anyone else_ , he’d said to the Machine. _Real people aren’t pieces, and you can’t assign more value to some of them than to others. People are not a thing you can sacrifice._

This morning, he’d assigned a value to Riley: _disposable_. When had he let himself start thinking that way? Even killers were still human beings. Harold had bent a decade of his life to the task of protecting humanity, and the last two and a half years to protecting the numbers. It wasn’t for them to determine which numbers deserved to be saved; the Machine directed them at the targets, and they simply worked out where the threat was coming from and neutralized it.

Last year, when the heads of the five families had been on the chopping block, it had been John arguing to just walk away; despite the risk, Harold had enjoined him to save their lives. Ultimately futile, given that four out of the five had been killed anyway, but Harold had tried his best to change the course of their destinies. And _they_ had been unrepentant killers; Riley was actually trying to get _out_ of that life. He wasn’t less deserving of a chance than Reese had been.

Harold swallowed, staring at the smoothies. Right now, Elias and Marconi were doing more to help Harold than Harold had been willing to do to help Riley.

“Harold?” came Elias’s voice in his ear. “Doing okay, there?”

“You’ve… reminded me of an important principle,” Harold said slowly. “And… thank you. For calling off the bounty, and for explaining to me what you did and why. I can’t say that I appreciate being the subject of your little experiment, but I understand what you hoped to learn from it.”

“I’ve learned a great deal. You know, I’ve no shortage of assets; there are countless people whose buttons I know how to press. But you, _you_ are a rare find. There might come a time when it’s useful to have someone who can actually say no to me.”

“An odd compliment… but I’ll accept it.”

“The question is, what’s the next move? Do we simply go our separate ways until the next time you need help badly enough to knock at my cell door?”

Assuming that they’d be dealing with each other in the future, it seemed sub-optimal to connect with Elias only during a crisis. “Do you have a counter-proposal?”

“Well, as I mentioned, it’s difficult to enjoy chess without a worthy opponent. You strike me as the type who might be skilled enough to challenge me. And, of course, a little table talk could help us get to know each other… or, at least, the parts we’re willing to bring to the surface. I’d consider that a valuable exchange; wouldn’t you?”

One of the games Harold felt the most antipathy toward… and yet, a pressing reminder of a principle he’d unthinkingly abandoned today. Evidently, the reminder could do him some good. And if it meant revealing a little of himself to Elias, it also meant a chance to better understand the kingpin as well -- the kind of information that could turn out to be vital.

“Are you proposing a single match, or regular sessions?”

“By this point, I doubt a single match would satisfy either of us.”

Harold couldn’t help letting out a chuckle at that one. “I do get the feeling that we’ll be playing against each other for a long time to come.”

“Then let us meet next time across the chessboard. Perhaps in two weeks?”

“Acceptable. Shall I contact you, or…?”

“I’ll look forward to the call.” There was a short pause, and then, “Is Anthony still there?”

“Yes, he’s here.” Marconi looked up, and Harold took in a breath. “Elias… thank you.”

If silence could convey surprise, Harold couldn’t imagine what it would sound like over the phone. But it was a moment before Elias responded. “Well. A first time for everything. If you would be so good as to hand him the phone--”

When Harold handed it over, Marconi gave a short nod, and motioned at the smoothies with his eyes. He put the phone to his ear with an immediate, “Yes, Boss.”

With a sigh, Harold picked up a piece of toast and hunted through the jam packets, selecting a bitter orange marmalade. He spread it over the toast and took a bite, savoring the mixed flavors. Released from its former tension, his stomach began clamoring for more, and he had finished half the peanut-banana smoothie and almost all of the toast by the time his attention got pulled back to Marconi -- who was saying, “Sure thing, Boss. See you then,” and then paused, hung up, and slipped the phone into his pocket.

During any other encounter with the man, Harold would have stayed wary, but the afternoon’s events had stripped him of the fear that Marconi might try to harm him. Today, at any rate, there was no direct threat; it didn’t leave him relaxed, exactly, but certainly more at ease.

Marconi regarded him. “Boss says to see you to a safe place, if you want.”

“That… won’t be necessary.”

“He didn’t think so. If I leave you now, will you be all right?”

Harold considered, then nodded firmly.

After getting to his feet, Marconi gestured at the food. “I took care of the bill. Don’t eat too fast.”

Not knowing what else he could possibly say, Harold said, “Thank you.”

Marconi’s answering smirk was gentler than his norm, and he nodded before heading out. In the mirror, Harold watched until he was out the door and out of sight.

After a few more sips of the smoothie, and a few blueberries popped into his mouth, Harold got up, slid into Marconi’s side of the booth, and felt around under the table for possible bugs. When his fingers failed to find any, he lay down on the bench and did a visual search -- nothing.

Of course, not being able to spot it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. There was little reason to suspect a bug at this point, but he couldn’t help that little level of paranoia. Recalling the way Marconi had helped him to his feet, he checked his pockets, too, and his bag.

He headed into the restroom before calling John. _Only the paranoid survive._

“Finch, you okay?”

Never had Harold been so glad to hear John’s voice. “The bounty’s off,” he said. “I’ll explain later, but Elias called it off -- you should be good.”

“Seems a couple people didn’t get the message. Annie’s been taken.”

Harold swallowed, hoping his earlier callousness hadn’t convinced Reese to abandon his other charge. “Is Riley all right?”

A short pause. “Yeah. We’re heading for a place called the Pearl. I’ll text you the address; can you run surveillance?”

“Certainly. How soon do you need it?”

“Traffic’s a nightmare, and there’s a manhunt going on -- might take us a while to get anywhere near the place.”

“Should give me enough time to get to a safe house and get set up. I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything.”

There was so much more that he wanted to say: that he’d been wrong about Riley, and John had been right; that he needed John to remind him if he ever made such a mistake again. He wanted to tell him about the bargain he’d struck with Elias, and how Elias had manipulated him, but that would wait. Perhaps tonight, when the case had been closed out and they were safely back at the library, he could finally level with John about his time in captivity, and how strongly it had affected him -- to the point where he found himself spouting Root’s mantras, even when they ran counter to every principle he’d ever held himself accountable to.

But, for now, it was enough to know that John was safe, and that Harold could help him stay that way -- as much as could be expected, given their line of work.

Shouldering his laptop bag, Harold limped back out through the diner -- double-checking that the bill had been covered, with a generous tip -- and headed toward the car. He’d made it through one ordeal, but the day wasn’t over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of work to do before October hits… so of course this is when I end up catching some bug. It's looking more and more like the flu, or something similar, and I've no idea if this is gonna take me out of the writing game for a few days or not.
> 
> I do have an update for next week, pretty much ready to go, but I've been hoping to complete September here with (a) the next chapter of _Mirror_ , (b) all four other chapters of _Bargains_ here, and (c) probably that other update, because it's short enough. And then I need to have one specific story ready to go for the first of October (ideas all in place, no real writing done so far). So, lots to do. Here's hoping that being sick doesn't interfere _too_ much….


	2. (One): Luxuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold could surrender part of his fortune. That wasn't a big deal.

“Well, I suppose I do owe you something for saving my life. Even so, everything does come with a cost.”

“I assumed there would be,” Harold said coolly. “What is it you want?”

“Well, as I said, I have no need of possessions. You know, growing up in an group home, you don’t get many objects that you can call your own. Some kids, they learn to cling to any little thing that comes their way. Anthony and I, we focused on the things they can’t take away from you. Memories. Knowledge. Aspirations.”

“Friends?”

“Well.” Elias took in a deep breath, and let it out again. “Places like that… always in flux. Never know who’s still going to be there next year… next month. And once a kid leaves, you don’t hear from them again. They’re the lucky ones. I got out -- eventually. Anthony wasn’t so lucky.”

“But you kept in touch.”

“I wasn’t going to leave him alone like that.” Leaning forward, Elias rested his elbows on the table and held Harold’s gaze. “You know, there are a lot of things that regular kids get to take for granted. Birthday parties, for example. I went into the system when I was four, and didn’t even know my own birthday until I was nine. August 18th, so even the school didn’t have a reason to let it slip. Anthony’s the one who snuck a look at our paperwork one time and found out.

“He’s also the one who gave me my first birthday present… of those I can remember, anyway. I’m sure my mother gave me something, but…” He shrugged. “But Anthony, he gave me a promise: As long as we were together, he’d find some way to celebrate the occasion, even if no one else cared.” Chuckling fondly, Elias looked off into the distance. “When I turned ten, he stole three pairs of the housemother’s underwear. When he showed them to me, I thought that was funny enough, but the next day he managed to sneak off during Sunday school to climb the steeple and hang them up there like flags. Caught hell for it -- actually still has some scars from the whipping. But it made up for some of the hell she’d been putting us through.”

“Not a very pleasant environment, I take it.”

Pushing the chair back with a sudden anger on his face, Elias got up and leaned both hands on the table, looking like he wanted to throttle the past. But just as quickly, the anger faded, and he bowed his head. “Truth is, I used to have this plan where I’d grow up and get money and buy the whole damn place, and put the kids into better homes. And then I’d rent some construction equipment and let Anthony go to town with a wrecking ball. For his birthday. Call me a romantic.” He pulled the chair back roughly, and sat down again. “But, by the time I was old enough to make that a possibility, the place had already been turned into a community center. I checked into it -- they’re a good place, run by good people. Improving lives. Not quite the same level of catharsis.”

“The one constant in the world is change.”

“Ah, now there’s a debate for the ages. _Nothing new under the sun_.” For a moment, Elias’s eyes practically glowed; then he waved it away. “The one constant in my life, since the day I met him, has been Anthony. And he still gives me a memorable birthday present each and every year. Never the same thing, always a surprise.

“One time, he managed to arrange the delivery of a gigantic stuffed lion… while he was lying in my basement, recovering from being both shot _and_ stabbed. For three weeks I was tending him pretty much 24/7, and he was feverish more than half the time. He swears he didn’t order it ahead of time, and I _still_ don’t know how he managed to call it in without me hearing it. Another year, it was a custom stunt kite, with _Invictus Maneo_ printed on it, which of course we destroyed on our very first attempt -- crashed it into the ocean, and nearly died laughing.

“Then there was the time he was on the run -- couldn’t even risk getting near me, letting people learn my face, but he sent me a singing telegram, of all things. With fancy chocolates. If you ever think that man doesn’t have a sense of humor--” Shaking his head, Elias let his grin fade to a soft smile, and he let out a sigh.

“Small wonder you’re as close as you are.”

“That man would crawl through glass if I asked him to -- and believe me, he has done worse. I try to show my appreciation in various ways, and this year, for once, I’d very much like to make a big deal out of _his_ birthday.”

Harold raised his eyebrows. “An intriguing request. What would you have in mind?”

“Well.” Leaning forward again, Elias folded his hands. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you have at your disposal an _enormous_ amount of money. Given that, and your disposition toward helping random strangers, I’d be surprised if you weren’t already donating more than your fair share toward various charitable enterprises. Perhaps you’ve created a few yourself, even if you can’t attach your actual name to them.”

There was the barest pause before Harold inclined his head.

“Anthony’s birthday is July 24th. That gives you a couple of weeks to put this together; I’ve no doubt that with your skills, you’ll be able to accomplish it within that time.”

“Accomplish what, exactly?”

“When all is said and done with our lives, the people we have been get forgotten. Maybe a few people remember us personally, for a generation or two. But the legacy we leave behind, that has the potential to live on. People still know about Marie Curie, Rudyard Kipling, Sun Tzu. Perhaps someday they’ll know my name, too, as the man who brought all the crime in New York under one banner, found a way to turn it from a disorganized mess into something more reasonable, easier to deal with. My legacy. Or perhaps I won’t get that far -- I’ll simply be known as one of the big names in crime, assuming I even live that long. But Anthony, for all he’s been through, all he’s done for me -- he deserves a better legacy.

“I heard a tale, once, about a man who lived for some time among a tribe of natives -- I forget where, Africa or South America or who knows. But, in time, the chieftain grew to appreciate the man’s contributions so greatly that he gave him a tremendous gift. ‘The people tell many stories of me,’ he said, referring to the folk lore built up around the chieftain. ‘From now on, these stories will be about _you_.’ And so the man, the visitor, he inherited the great tales, the mythology of the chieftain -- a legacy he earned not by the acts recorded in those stories, but by the friendship he fostered between him and that tribe, that chieftain.”

Looking wistful, Elias gazed off into the distance. “If I can do that for Anthony… so that people hear his name and think of something positive, life-giving… I would like to do that.” He met Harold’s eyes again, and leaned forward, tapping his thumbs. “So… I want you to create a charity to improve conditions for orphans and homeless children in this city. Set it up with, shall we say, five million dollars, partly in a trust fund to kick interest back into the main fund, and create it under the name _Antonio Marconi_. Don’t tie it to his current appearance -- I can get you a picture of him from before he got attacked. And have the information ready to be presented to him on July 24th.”

“The rest of the proposal sounds fine, but… five million dollars?”

Elias spread his hands. “I guessed low. I was aiming for one percent.”

“…of how much money I own.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“Are you likely to increase the price point for every favor we ask?”

“I’m certain that I’ll be able to come up with more useful trades in future, but this one does have a deadline, and nothing else that you could do for me seems particularly pressing at the moment. Call it a test of how strongly your wealth weighs against your mission.”

“Philanthropy and wealth aren’t in conflict: It’s rarely easy to accomplish the one without the other.”

“I don’t doubt it. And I’m not foolish enough to think that giving away most of your fortune is a necessary component of being a philanthropist. A generous heart means little without a sense of good stewardship. That being said, I doubt the amount I’ve asked for will come anywhere close to beggaring you.”

Again, Harold inclined his head. “Five million, partly in trust, for a charity under the name of Antonio Marconi, to improve the conditions of children without parents or without homes.”

“Yes.”

“And you will put an end to the bounty on Riley Cavanaugh and Annie Delaney.”

“Is the deal acceptable?”

“It is. I shall see to the construction of the charity, and get back to you within two weeks.”

“I’ll get Massey’s dogs off your backs, and look forward to hearing from you again.”

Harold rose, and shook Elias’s hand. Before letting go, he hesitated.

“For future reference, Mr. Elias, so you don’t feel the need to probe the same area again… you were off by an order of magnitude. But your estimate wasn’t too far from my yearly income.”

Elias blinked as Harold released his hand. “I didn’t think you’d be so willing to reveal that.”

A smile quirked the corner of Harold’s lips. “Sometimes a little curiosity can be a dangerous thing. I’d rather lay this one to rest.”

“Well. One fewer secret between us. At this rate, perhaps someday I’ll even learn your real name… Mr. Crane.”

Harold raised his eyebrows. “Now that would be… a feat.”

“I suppose we’ll have to see how this plays out.”

“I suppose we will. Good-bye, Mr. Elias. And I do hope your associate has a memorable birthday.”


	3. (Two) Information -- Preview only!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, I realize there are areas you’re not free to talk about. I won’t ask about the source of your information, or where your base of operations is.”
> 
> “You’re still going to dig close to areas I simply will not give you information about. Even telling you which areas to steer clear of would be an unreasonable breach of security.”
> 
> “Then let’s give me an incentive to be careful with my questions: You can veto any question, and three vetoes means the round is over. And once a topic has been covered in a round, I can’t bring it up for future rounds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a preview!
> 
> So, the mixed chapters thing is bugging the heck out of me because I don't know what'll happen to the comments once I insert the missing chapters (because apparently AO3 won't let me leave space for them). So I'm adding a preview of the intervening chapters, as a placeholder. I hope eventually to come back and post the full-fledged chapters, but in the meantime....
> 
> ETA: Okay, the comments go with the chapters. Hope that'll get my brain to stop freaking out!

“All right, then, first round: Let’s talk about your childhood.”

There were so many things Harold wanted to keep private about his past -- but this was just the opening round, and a fairly safe way to see how far Elias would press. It made more sense to allow it than to try for a different category this early.

Harold took in a deep breath and let it out. “Go.”

“Obviously Mr. Crane isn’t your real name; do you still use any part of the name you were born to?”

Harold barely hesitated. “Yes.”

“When is the last time you used your full birth name?”

“When I last saw my father.”

“Hmm. Did your parents appreciate the level of intellect you displayed while you were young?”

“Yes… although sometimes they didn’t quite know what to do about it.”

Elias chuckled. “Did you have any relatives of similar intellect to yourself?”

“No. And it wasn’t until university that I met anyone who came close to matching me on that plane.”

“Not particularly humble, there.”

“You called attention to the quality. If my strength or speed were this far outside the societal average, I wouldn’t pretend to be slow or weak.”

“Ah, yes. _I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one's self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers._ ”

Harold smiled. “Indeed. You’ve eight more questions this round.”

“When did you first realize that your intellect was exceptional?”

Pausing, Harold considered. “A few months before high school, I think.”

“Prior to your eighteenth birthday, what’s the largest present you ever received?”

“A broken tractor… so I could take it apart to see how it worked.”

“Country boy, huh? Hmm. In the same time frame, what’s the present you got that meant the most to you?”

The image of the exact book instantly filled his mind. But given how closely it was related to his aliases… “Pass.”

“Ah. Well, let’s see. I guess I will burn one to ask for your given name.”

“I imagine you’ll learn it sooner or later. It’s Harold.”

“Nice to meet you, Harold. What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“At various points, a pilot, a doctor, a mechanic, a chemist, and a t-rex. You’ve three left.”

“Your favorite book as a teen?”

Harold chuckled. “I don’t know that this quite answers the question, but I was always trying to get my hands on new computer manuals. Anything that’d help me figure out how to build and maintain my own system. This was before people in the cities had personal computers, and certainly before ‘country boys’ ever got their hands on one.”

“Certainly ahead of the curve. What’s the biggest change in your tastes from childhood to now, as far as food or drink?”

Taken aback, Harold frowned. “I suppose… I have very little tolerance for sweets, these days.”

“Well, I don’t get the thirteenth question, but let’s see if you’ll veto this or not: What is the reason you left your old life behind?”

Pushing down his knee-jerk reaction, Harold debated the relative risk. It was important to play the game fairly, and he could see ways to convey a truthful answer without opening too many doors. “It was no longer possible for me to stay,” he ventured, finally.

“Now that one, I’m going to have to say is rather vague.”

He sighed. “If I had stayed… well, I left because there was nothing left for me there, and it was easier to abandon everything I had been than to face up to consequences that I still believe were out of proportion to my actions. They would have made the rest of my life unbearable.”

“Intriguing.”

“Next category, Mr. Elias.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short version, but, again, I do hope to finish up the chapter and post it at some point. I doubt it'll be soon; I've been struggling with it. And, of course, it certainly won't be before December (given NaNoWriMo coming up here).


	4. (Four) Touch -- part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two hours alone with Elias… in the middle of a prison, with the guards bribed to turn a deaf ear. Yes, that was a comforting thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have given up waiting until I complete the previous chapters. And this has now been split into at least two parts; I don't know if it'll ultimately be three or not.
> 
> But at least you guys can enjoy it before October is out. After all, the vampire one was inspired by this idea ^_^  
>  **Vampire One:** http://archiveofourown.org/works/12439533
> 
> P.S. I hate to bring up a movie as flawed as _Ferngully_ , but there's one line in here (spoken by Elias within the first couple of pages) that I can't think of without hearing a very similar line from that movie. Makes me grin ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Content Warnings in End Note**

There were many days when Harold woke up and didn’t want to get out of bed. Not that staying in bed was pain-free, but getting out of bed hurt, and going through his day hurt, and as long as he stayed in bed he could pretend, for a while, that his life wasn’t one long battle with physical and mental suffering.

He usually didn’t stay in bed, though. Didn’t have the time, and his routine was a comfort to him, and, anyway, if he let himself wallow in self-pity for very long he was concerned that he’d never pull himself out again.

Of course, there weren’t many days when it was time to get up and he’d spent the entire night without the comforting refuge of sleep.

 

John noticed, because John noticed everything about him. Harold met his inquiries with indifference, and an undercurrent of hostility: _Stop asking_. It wasn’t something that he wished to discuss with John, nor was it a matter John could do anything to remedy. It just _was_ , and it was a matter he had to accept and deal with -- as so many other aspects of his life these days.

_Everything does come with a cost._

They’d gone to Elias for help, because they’d been desperate enough to overlook his many murders, as well as the fact that he’d threatened a baby and kidnapped Detective Carter’s son. There were times when you had to choose the lesser of two evils, or the greatest benefit from multiple unsavory options. And Elias had come through -- had squashed the bounty that would have made their case exponentially more difficult to pull off. Even without the bounty, they’d lost one of their numbers; with it, they might have lost them both -- and John, too.

Going to Elias had saved John’s life. That knowledge made it a little easier, gave Harold something to cling to as he limped toward the public payphone, not sure whether to hope it would ring or hope it stayed silent.

Silence. No one in imminent danger today.

Scrunching his eyes shut, he shuddered and took a deep breath. Today would be the first, then.

_Everything does come with a cost._

_I assumed there would be. …What is it you want?_

His hands were shaking as he buttoned the shirt he’d chosen. Not knowing how this was going to play out, he’d decided not to take anything that he’d care about losing. It had felt odd, buying a thousand-dollar suit for… _this_ , but then again, the purchase supported a local tailor, and Harold didn’t really care about the money. And the fabric was one of the more common types, so he wouldn’t be that upset if it got ruined.

_I have no need of possessions._

He ate a light lunch, his stomach feeling like it wanted to rebel even over tea and toast. He’d given John the day off, hoping that the agent wouldn’t choose this day to tail Harold all over the city. Harold didn’t have the energy to fight it, not today.

When the bus was in sight, he messaged Elias, and wondered if he was going to throw up. But then the bus was there, and he was sitting down in the seats marked _Please Offer a Seat (It’s not only polite, it’s the law)_. When he took a bus, he usually tried to avoid disabled seating; every time the bus was full enough to make him sit up front, he felt guilty about it, as though he didn’t deserve to sit there, given how his injuries were practically self-inflicted. But this time, he didn’t bother moving to one of the many open seats near the back; he could stand on principle some other day.

The bus pulled into traffic again, and Harold tried not to think about where he was going.

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

“Well, I suppose I do owe you something for saving my life. Even so, everything does come with a cost.”

“I assumed there would be.” Harold steadied himself, in case Elias attempted to startle some information out of him. “What is it you want?"

“Well, as I said, I have no need of possessions.” Elias’s jaw moved to one side, considering. “There’s a certain amount of, hmm, _hassle_ that comes from tangling with Massey. Long-term consequences. Messy. And the truth is, at the moment, there’s nothing I can think of that would benefit my enterprise enough to offset that -- at least, not without going beyond what you’d be willing to concede. Unless I’ve drastically misjudged your desperation, that is.”

Hoping that that was just a feint -- an opening move to put the negotiation more in his favor -- Harold decided to be straight with a few of the factors they were dealing with. Laying down so many cards so early felt like showing throat, but speed was also a critical factor here. “I wouldn’t be here if we had many options. John’s life is on the line -- as it is almost daily -- and you are the person best positioned to improve his chances of surviving this. Which, admittedly, gives you quite the edge in these negotiations.”

Elias’s grin widened, not unpleasantly. “And he won’t just walk away. I understand that, believe me.” Tapping his thumbs against his folded hands, he regarded Harold. “And now, since he’s trapped in the field, you’re stuck here trying to bargain with a lion… without so much as a mouse to offer.”

“We do not lack for resources, Mr. Elias. And I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t prepared to compromise. I’m sure we can come to some sort of… arrangement.”

“Hmm.” Elias unfolded his hands, and laid one over the other. “You know, the years I spent as a history teacher, I got familiar with a certain kind of people. Being in here, I’m surrounded by more of the same: low-class thugs, people who never had the talent to aim any higher. Not worth my time. But you, now, you’re a breath of fresh air. A man of mysteries, intelligence, culture. Good taste” -- he gestured at the suit -- “and moral fiber, tempered by pragmatism. After the affair with the baby, I’m rather surprised that you’re willing to see me as a potential asset; not many would. And yet you come to me, which means you know when to look beyond the simple lines that get drawn in the sand. You can see the larger principles at play. All of which says that you’re the type of man I’d like to get to know better.”

 _You’re a murderer who has kidnapped a child and used a baby’s life as a bargaining chip_ , Harold thought, studying the man before him. _You’ve gone back on your word when it suits you, so you’re inherently untrustworthy, and yet you seem to believe that your crimes are justified and that somehow you’re better than the other criminals. Why the hell would I care to get to know_ you _?_ All of which he couldn’t voice. If he couldn’t ignore some of the dirty tricks of the past, this negotiation would never be successful.

Instead, he inclined his head. “If you deal fairly with us… well, you did say something about a chess partner.”

Elias chuckled. “Something tells me you’re the sort to gravitate toward other games. But you know… it can get rather stressful in a place like this. A chance to unwind isn’t that bad an idea. I can’t exactly let my guard down around the men in here; even the ones I’ve taken under my wing aren’t the most trustworthy types. But you” -- he glanced around, and leaned forward conspiratorially -- “you don’t seem likely to stick a knife in my back. So if I’m going to relax with someone… it might as well be you.”

Images flashed through Harold's mind: the two of them playing chess together -- discussing classical literature -- drinking wine, because Harold had no doubt that Elias could arrange for some, even at Rikers. Just as Harold was considering the ramifications of becoming Elias’s gaming partner, he noticed Elias’s smile growing wide -- predatory.

“It seems I do have an offer for you after all. One that has nothing to do with my criminal enterprises.” His eyes practically glowed. “Four visits from you, two hours each -- and I’ll take care of the bounty.”

Harold swallowed, his stomach clenching as he got an idea of where Elias might be going with this. Still, assumption was the enemy of fact -- it was as well to make sure. “What sort of visits are you suggesting?”

“Well, although I’m certain that you would prove a most engaging conversationalist, and a worthy opponent for any game involving strategy, I’m thinking something a little more… intimate.”

It took Harold a long moment before he was able to gather himself and reply, somewhat stiffly, “I… wasn’t aware that Rikers allowed unsupervised visits.”

“Oh, they don’t, officially -- nor do most prisons, these days. But, of course” -- Elias swept an arm through the air, broadly indicating the room -- “it depends on how much influence you have within these walls. Getting a couple hours with the cameras turned off, the guards stationed elsewhere… not as hard as you might think, given the right incentives. And there are rooms that can be set up for this sort of dalliance.”

Closing his eyes, Harold took a deep breath, trying to work out the crime lord’s angle. Sex was unlikely, though that didn’t ease his discomfort at the fact that Elias had raised the idea. Was that very discomfort the key, here? Elias could be trying to make his _actual_ offer seem more tolerable. Or perhaps it was a ruse to get Harold into a private room, either to exchange information away from prying ears and eyes, or -- less benevolently -- to leave him at Elias’s mercy for two whole hours, during which the kingpin could attempt to extract his secrets or… who knows what.

Two hours in a room with Elias… in the middle of a prison, with the guards bribed to turn a deaf ear. Yes, that was a comforting thought.

“What do you hope to gain from this?” he asked, finally, regarding the crime lord through narrowed eyes. It seemed unlikely that Elias would give him a straight answer, but at least he could show that he was intelligent enough not to accept the offer at face value.

Leaning back in his chair, Elias sighed. “A chance to unwind, to begin with. Some physical pleasure I haven’t enjoyed in… well, if we’re being honest, decades.” He cast an appraising eye over Harold. “And, of course, a chance to get to know you better.”

Harold frowned. “For some reason, I imagined that you would start with a _serious_ offer.”

“Hmmm.” Elias steepled his fingers under his chin. “Are you under the impression that I am not being serious?”

“I am under the impression, Mr. Elias, that you are attempting to get some reaction out of me, or put me off my guard by using such an outlandish idea. That, or make the actual offer seem more reasonable by comparison.”

“Is it so unbelievable that I might want to enjoy your body for a while?”

Harold was all too aware of his body: its age, the wear and tear, its incapacities. While he’d been with Grace, he hadn’t judged himself wanting, because she had found him charming and that was enough for him; but it had been two and a half years since she’d last laid eyes on him -- and the day they’d parted had, in more ways than one, destroyed the man she’d known. Given his injuries and the way they restricted his movement, along with the daily pain and stress he operated under, he didn’t for a moment imagine himself to be physically attractive anymore. Certainly not enough to justify this kind of request.

“Perhaps if I looked the least bit physically appealing--”

“You’re not _un_ appealing. But really, physical appearance is hardly the most important factor here. I’ve already pointed out your attraction for me… and you’re overlooking the possibility that I might want something more than mere sex.”

“I’m not overlooking it -- _obviously_ you want something more than sex. But even if I thought that you were making a serious offer, the idea of you being attracted to me is one of the _least_ plausible explanations for this… maneuver.”

“Oh? I’m interested to hear what else you think this might be.”

Harold huffed. “A power play, to some end. Humiliation for us having thwarted your plans in the past. Blackmail -- although you needn’t get so crude for that; to a person as private as I am, a clear photo or video is damaging enough on its own.”

“Attraction doesn’t factor in?”

“Perhaps -- but it can hardly be the strongest factor. Unless you’ve got a serious fetish for the disabled. Or… is this what you understand relationships to be? Power plays? Coercion?”

“Coercion? I thought we were here to make a bargain. Mutual benefit.”

“You must be aware that I don’t have the luxury of just walking away from this table. Not unless I’m convinced that the cost outweighs the benefit. So if I say yes, that’s… I’d be selling my body.” He shook his head, brows drawn together. “I can’t think of a more coercive setup that doesn’t involve physical force or extortion. Does this strike you as the best way to start a relationship?”

“Would it be more acceptable if I _just_ wanted your body? No relationship to speak of?”

“That’s antithetical to what you said earlier -- that you’d like to get to know me better, that you find some of my intellectual and ethical qualities appealing. So-- I--”

He paused to take a couple deep breaths, trying to quiet his mind. There were so many things Elias could be trying to accomplish with this move, but Harold couldn’t get a grasp on it -- couldn’t see what the goal was, why he had chosen to pose an offer this… bizarre. “Despite our previous encounters, I understand you to be a man who possesses some _semblance_ of morality, Mr. Elias, and this… it just doesn’t make sense with what I know of you.” Maybe that was the point? Throw Harold off-balance by proposing something completely at odds with Elias’s established qualities? He shook his head, bewildered.

Elias tilted his head and made a quick moue. “Well. Regardless of _why_ I’m doing this, it’s still my offer. I call off the bounty, and you spend eight hours with me. Intimately. You came here to bargain, Mr. Crane; this is the deal I’m offering. Accept it or reject it -- or come up with a counteroffer.”

Studying Elias’s expression, Harold tried to find something, anything, to help him understand what the kingpin truly wanted here; he couldn’t offer a reasonable deal to counter this one unless he knew why Elias had proposed it. Especially since the negotiation had started with the idea that Harold didn’t really have much that Elias wanted.

His stomach felt queasy, and the room was getting colder by the second -- no, not the room. The air around him was probably the same temperature, just… that was the blood leaving his face, his hands.

He was going to do this. It seemed at once both impossible and inevitable. _Sex_ was possible -- surely not because Elias desired him, but when a man had bargained with a baby’s life, it was difficult to say where any of his boundaries lay. Maybe it would just be hate sex; maybe Elias’s affability hid a much darker personality underneath. Sadists weren’t visibly distinct from the rest of the population. Or perhaps Harold would learn some even more disturbing things about Elias -- the kind that only emerged in the bedroom.

Good god. He was going to be sharing a bed with _Elias_.

At length, he swallowed, his hands clenching on the table. His gaze darted up to Elias’s eyes, but he couldn’t make himself keep looking. “You… you wouldn’t damage me.”

“Never my intention.”

Stiffly, Harold nodded, his breath coming just a little faster. 

“Anything else?”

“I’ll need some flexibility, as to schedule. When I’m working a case--”

“Perfectly understandable.”

Were there any other concessions he could ask for -- anything to reduce the vulnerability, or to make his sacrifice a little more meaningful? His head was swimming; he couldn’t put one thought against another, couldn’t come up with anything--

Finally, Harold’s gaze flew up to Elias’s again, searching his face -- his own a mask of uncertain desperation. “Will you even tell me _why?_ ”

Leaning forward, Elias put one hand over the other on the table. “Even if you could trust my answer… would it change yours?”

Harold slumped a little, his arms falling limply from the table. Numbly, he stared at its surface. “No.”

“Huh. Nothing I could use this for would make you change your mind?”

“Elias…” He felt his lips draw down, chin trembling with the last vestiges of his self-control; he scrunched his eyes shut, taking in deep, shuddering breaths. If there were anything he could think of, he would have grasped at it like a lifeline -- but there was nothing.

Elias waited silently as long minutes passed and Harold slowly calmed.

Finally, Harold opened his eyes and looked up again, dull acceptance written across his face. “Somehow I thought that I was ready for whatever you might request; you’ve proven me wrong, but it doesn’t change the basic calculation. We need your help. Even at his finest, John would be hard-pressed to deal with a manhunt this big. I came here knowing that we would have to compromise, that it could cost me….” He swallowed. “If you wanted nothing more than sex, the bargain would be… cheap,” he concluded, hating the word even as he gave it voice. “If you’re using this chance to make me supremely uncomfortable, to get back at us somehow… what can I say? You’ve got the upper hand here.

“If this is a gambit to make me more inclined to accept your counteroffer, I can only conclude that your real objective is one that you doubt we would willingly accept, so this seems… easier to bear. And if you’re only setting this up to have me at your mercy for two hours,” he continued, coldly, “I can tell you that I’ve borne worse, for longer, and it’s unlikely that you’ll be able to break me in that time. Not to mention that any future benefit that John and I might provide you would be lost for good -- which is one of the reasons that I find that scenario unlikely. Though disquieting,” he admitted.

“Then, your answer is?”

Harold looked away again, misery bleeding across his tense features, his scrunched shoulders. “It doesn’t matter what your reasoning is. John’s life is on the line. And if your help can be bought with this currency…” He gathered himself, squared his shoulders, and met Elias’s gaze, raising his chin. “I accept.”

Elias’s smile grew wider, his predator’s eyes gleaming. “Well, then… I shall see to my end of the bargain, and when you are satisfied as to its fulfillment… I shall expect you within the month, on the first day you are reasonably free to visit me. I look forward to getting to know you better.”

Swallowing, Harold nodded, his stomach a tight mass of anxiety as he got up from his chair.

* * * * *

* * * *

* * * * *

True to his word, Elias had stopped the manhunt cold; now it was Harold’s turn to fulfill his end of the bargain. There hadn’t even been a day in between, another case that could have delayed the inevitable. But then, what good would it do to put it off? He’d just spend more sleepless nights imagining.

When the guards came to escort him to Elias, he recognized them -- the two who’d escorted Elias to him before. He went with them silently, helplessly, rubbing his hands together in a futile effort to get them to stop shaking.

The room they led him to was roughly the size of the visitation room; it was made of concrete, with only the one door and no windows. Harold immediately spotted the wires dangling loosely from the cameras, and wondered if they were always this way, or if they’d been disabled purely for this occasion; either way, it didn’t make him feel safer.

Besides a large bed covered in pillows and a fluffy comforter, there was a sturdy table, also covered with a blanket, and two cushioned chairs. When Elias had mentioned having the influence to set up a room, Harold hadn’t really stopped to imagine what all could be smuggled in -- _given the right incentives_.

He hadn’t even taken in all the details when Elias was there behind him, his hands on Harold’s shoulders. Stiffening, Harold closed his eyes, swallowed his anxiety, and tried to push back all the thoughts of trying to get out of this. It seemed obscene, the thought of letting Elias touch where only Grace had ever touched him. But he would allow it; he would allow all of it. For the sake of the numbers, and the sake of John’s life, for the sake of any future dealings they might need to have with Elias, he would go through with this, and emerge out the other side.

And then do it three more times. But he wasn’t going to think about that now.

One of the guards placed a large black satchel on the foot of the bed, and then Elias was saying, “That will be all,” and then the door was closing and they were finally alone.

“Well,” said Elias, brightly, “I think it’s time to get to know each other. Starting with a name that actually _belongs_ to you… Mr. Crane.”

Harold took in a breath and released it. This much was fair: Besides the sex, the stated purpose of the visit was to develop a relationship of some sort, however odd that might be. “Harold,” he said.

“Mmm. Well, Harold, I see no reason to put this off. It’s warm enough in here; let’s get into something more comfortable.”

It _was_ fairly warm in the room, surprising for its construction -- but then Harold spotted the space heater on the far side of the bed. Ah.

There was no use protesting that he felt more at ease in his suit; soon enough, the clothing wouldn’t matter. With a sigh, he sat on one of the chairs and removed his shoes, then hung his suit jacket over the back of the chair -- the best he could do to keep it from wrinkling -- and then cast a glance at the crime lord.

Who’d removed his orange jumpsuit and was standing there in gray boxers and an undershirt. Hardly surprising. As soon as Harold looked his way, though, he grinned and picked up a thin pillow from the bed, then dropped it in front of the empty chair before sitting down. “I suppose we could start with a warm-up,” he said, and gestured at the cushion before leaning back with a satisfied sigh, legs spread wide.

Mentally, Harold had prepared himself, as best as he could, for the things he’d likely be doing with Elias -- or letting Elias do to him, however it went. Now that it was before him, about to happen, about to be real, he found that the mental preparation didn’t amount to much. He’d never done this with a man before -- never wanted to, never had any reason to. But within the next few minutes, two of those statements would be rendered forever untrue.

Determined to get through this without letting it break him, Harold took in a breath and walked up to Elias, not meeting his eyes. With little else to brace himself on, he used the mobster’s thighs to stay balanced as he carefully brought himself down, until finally he was kneeling on the cushion, already pushing back a slight increase in his usual level of pain.

Elias’s boxers were right there in front of him, and he could make out the bulge. Not aroused, not yet -- but then, they’d barely started.

He couldn’t think about that phrase, either. One task at a time. He just had to _do_ this, and… and not think too much about what he was doing. _The bargain had saved John’s life._

Drawing in a shaky breath, he reached forward, reached for--

Elias caught his hands. Alarmed, Harold looked up at him: Had he done something wrong already? Was there some way this could get worse? He felt his hands trembling in the kingpin’s firm grip.

“Why do you do it, Harold?” Elias asked, head tipped to one side.

“What did I do?” Harold asked, raising an eyebrow as his breath came faster. “I’m-- I’m trying. I’ve never _done_ this before,” he added desperately. He’d done something wrong -- the deal was going to change, going to get worse--

With a sigh, Elias scooted his chair back, and, rising, took Harold under the armpits, quickly but carefully bringing him to his feet again. Before Harold could get his bearings, Elias was muscling him backwards, turning him, and suddenly there was a chair behind his knees and he was off-balance enough that he didn’t have much choice but to sit down.

Crouching in front of Harold, Elias studied him, his expression puzzled. Harold was beyond keeping track of what was happening; all he could do was wait for the next surprise to be sprung on him.

His eyes widened when Elias’s hand cupped his cheek. “Calm down,” Elias murmured. “It’s all right. I just--” He sighed, as if a little disgusted with himself. “Guess I found out how far you’d really go. I honestly thought-- God, I don’t _get_ it. What could be so important that even this is an acceptable sacrifice? You’re out there helping random strangers. One of them was a _hitman_. And you’re willing to-- you found _this_ an acceptable price? Trading your virtue for his life?”

Blinking at him, Harold swallowed, his mouth dry. “That’s… that’s what we do. We save lives. If… if this is the price--”

“Is it guilt? Harold, help me _understand_. You obviously don’t want to do this. Every muscle, every micro-expression is screaming out to me that you are doing this against your will -- but you _chose_ to do it. You agreed to the deal. Even the allowances you bargained for… I can’t help but feel that they were less about leaving you in one piece and more about ensuring that you weren’t further handicapped while trying to work the cases. What the hell happened to you? When did you start seeing yourself as this kind of expendable?”

Already on the brink of tears, Harold drew himself up. “Is that what this is about? Unsettling me enough to get at my secrets? I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, Mr. Elias; I have a little more self-control than you give me credit for.”

But he was still trembling.

Elias sighed. “I use every tool at my disposal to get information; that’s part of how I operate. If I was willing to spend decades teaching the children of my enemies, and leverage a baby’s life to get info on where my father was hidden, it’s hardly a stretch to think that I might use sex the same way. But,” he said, getting to his feet with some difficulty, “that isn’t why I made this deal.

“I didn’t bring you here to trick you into revealing your secrets. Nor to hurt you, or humiliate you. And I am hardly so desperate as to need an unwilling partner,” he concluded, raising his palms heavenward along with his gaze.

Not to hurt or humiliate him -- no sadism, then. Too overwhelmed to feel much relief, Harold tried to work out what Elias wanted from him. If it wasn’t sex, or information, or a chance to get back at them for disrupting his operation… what, then? Elias wouldn’t have called off the bounty for nothing. Some sort of trade was still in effect, but… he couldn’t think of anything.

“Then--” he blurted, “th-the deal--”

“Still in effect,” Elias said. “For these two hours, I own your body. Get up.”

_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:**
> 
> Dubious Consent. Emotional and physiological reactions to stress, and to the thought of doing something intensely distasteful (but that must be done for a greater good).
> 
> A canon disabled character judging himself (specifically, that his disabilities make him unattractive, in both senses of the word). Also discusses his chronic pain and physical limitations.
> 
> If I've missed anything major, please let me know in the comments! It feels like this section should have more warnings, but I think most of it is covered with just "dubious consent" -- which isn't just about sex, btw! There's "dubious consent" touching here, for example, and one character physically picking up and moving another.
> 
>  **Note:** I thought that you could set chapter numbers with breaks (empty chapters) between -- I'm almost certain I've seen that before. But this just changed from 5 to 3 because I haven't posted chapters 3 or 4 yet. I have no idea how this will affect the comments section when I get around to posting the intervening chapters.


	5. (Four) Touch -- part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Is it guilt? Harold, help me understand. You obviously don’t want to do this. Every muscle, every micro-expression is screaming out to me that you are doing this against your will -- but you chose to do it. What the hell happened to you? When did you start seeing yourself as this kind of expendable?”_
> 
> _Already on the brink of tears, Harold drew himself up. “Is that what this is about? Unsettling me enough to get at my secrets? I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, Mr. Elias; I have a little more self-control than you give me credit for.”_
> 
> _But he was still trembling._
> 
> _Elias sighed. “I didn’t bring you here to trick you into revealing your secrets. Nor to hurt you, or humiliate you.”_
> 
> _Too overwhelmed to feel much relief, Harold tried to work out what Elias wanted from him. If it wasn’t sex, or information, or a chance to get back at them for disrupting his operation… what, then? Elias wouldn’t have called off the bounty for nothing._
> 
> _“Then--” Harold blurted, “th-the deal--”_
> 
> _“Still in effect,” Elias said. “For these two hours, I own your body. Get up.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little crude language, but I think it's reasonable for Harold's thought process; I see no reason to euphemize the idea.
> 
> Please note that I have no background in massage, and am cribbing bits from things I've read (a mental soup with bits of fanfics, shows, articles, and other research). If I thought there were any harmful ideas conveyed, I'd likely either fix those areas or at least give a warning here, but I honestly don't know -- so don't take my work as an instruction manual. (Especially when it comes to massage of a person with physical disabilities where the wrong sort of massage technique could harm them.)
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Content Warnings in End Note**

Swallowing, even less sure what to expect, Harold got to his feet, trying -- vainly -- to bring his trembling body back under his control. Every part of him was tense, keyed up for a battle he couldn’t allow himself to fight; he could only hope that Elias valued his mental submission more than the physical submission that Harold couldn’t quite grant him.

“Get rid of the vest and the belt -- and the cufflinks,” Elias said, and Harold complied, trying to guess at where this was going but coming up blank, which only multiplied his anxiety. As he was unbuckling his belt, he found Elias in his space again. The crime lord began methodically undoing the buttons on his silk shirt; Harold fought back the urge to swat his hands away.

Soon, the shirt hung open, though it was still tucked into his trousers. Elias gave Harold a considering look, then nodded with a satisfied moue and turned away.

Once Harold had put his belt on the chair and turned back for more orders, he found Elias arranging a wedge-shaped pillow on the blanket-covered table. Elias glanced at him, unsmiling, and motioned him over with a jerk of his head. As Harold came closer, he noticed that the pillow had a piece cut out of the middle of the wedge -- just the shape to fit a person’s face.

“Let’s get you on the table,” Elias said, holding out a hand. Harold stared at it, feeling his brows draw together, his shoulders get even tenser. Then, he noticed a stepping stool; Elias had certainly put a lot of thought into this enterprise.

Taking Elias’s hand, Harold let himself be helped up onto the table, and carefully positioned himself face-down; he couldn’t hold back a shudder as he did so. While he’d been at Elias’s mercy since he’d walked into the room-- no; he’d been at Elias’s mercy since he’d come to him in person, begging for help. Prepared to surrender even his own body, because it would be better than losing John. But the helplessness of his position just made his submission feel that much more real.

The pillow did manage to keep the pressure off of his neck, and the opening allowed enough airflow; he still felt a little claustrophobic, and focused on taking deep, slow breaths, trying to relax and just let Elias do whatever it was that Elias was planning to do.

With calm efficiency, Elias tucked the blanket in around Harold, securing his arms at his sides and supporting his body wherever needed. Harold found himself floating on a cloud that was a strange mix of fear and tension… and unexpected comfort.

Could he believe the crime lord’s assurance that Elias didn’t intend to have sex after all? That the idea of sex had been nothing more than a ruse? But Elias had gone back on his word before. Still, Harold still had his trousers on, and the table surely wasn’t conducive to sexual activity; the height and his position were all wrong. Of course, this could be just the first step; perhaps this was where Elias would work him open, prepare him to be fucked--

Harold closed his eyes, tears pricking at the corners. Only a few months ago, he’d been at the mercy of Root, for days, not knowing when it would end; this was better, in so many ways, and he knew that -- logically. He knew how long the session would be, knew that he’d be free once it was over. If Elias went beyond their agreement, Harold knew that John was nearby and would track him down with trivial ease, would rescue him. And Root had _twice_ shot a person, in cold blood, close enough for Harold’s ears to ring… so he had fully expected to die by her hand, and not before getting tortured. But Elias -- well, Elias wasn’t any less a killer, but he _had_ repeatedly spared John’s life; Harold knew that Elias wasn’t planning to kill him.

Every detail was better than it had been with Root.

And yet -- somehow -- it was worse.

Elias clasped his shoulders again; Harold stiffened up instantly. Warm breath hit his ear a moment before the words.

“I don’t intend to hurt you,” Elias murmured, his voice low but clear. “I don’t _want_ to hurt you -- but I understand that you have some physical limitations, and I may not realize that what I’m doing is causing you pain. So, if anything hurts, just say the word _red_. Or, if you can’t make yourself heard, tap twice. You got that?”

“Red,” Harold murmured. “Like a stop sign.”

“Exactly. If you need me to slow down, or be more careful, use _yellow_. This is part of the deal: If you’re in pain, or need me to slow down, you make me aware of it. Okay?”

“Stop lights. If I need you to stop, or slow down.”

“Correct. Other than that… it would be best if you breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth, slowly,” Elias concluded, and his breath left Harold’s ear as his hands slid down the outside of Harold’s arms.

With his head held firmly by the pillow, Harold had nothing to see but the table, so he closed his eyes. But that only intensified the feelings: his own breath, hot against his face; the stretch of his lower back, just shy of being painful.

And Elias’s hands gliding over his skin.

As Elias tugged his shirt-tails free of his trousers, and worked his hands up under the fabric, Harold tried to keep his breath steady, following the pattern that Elias had relayed. The hands moved from lower back all the way up to his shoulders, then back down his sides. The soft movement grew firmer as Elias repeated it -- twice -- three times -- and then he stopped at the shoulders and began to squeeze the muscles there, gradually increasing the pressure as he worked out the tension.

Over the course of Harold’s physical therapy, he’d been repeatedly advised that a good massage could make him less sore, less stiff, even accelerate his recovery -- but Harold refused to even consider it. Back when his body had been solid and healthy, the body of a focused jogger who didn’t spend 90% of his day seated at a computer, he’d found that every masseur or masseuse he hired would push him to the point of pain, repeatedly. At the time, he’d accepted it, even relished the challenge -- the way he relished pushing through resistance at the start of a run until he got through to that runner’s high. But with his body and mind still reeling from the shock wave of the ferry bombing, he wasn’t about to undergo deliberate pain for _hypothetical_ benefits; the physical therapy was torment enough.

Here, now, under the ministrations of Elias’s warm and callused hands, Harold was _expecting_ pain -- if not deliberate, then unavoidable, like any massage he’d ever had. But even as the crime lord dug into the knots, his movements were slow, and careful, not rushing the process; the discomfort barely brushed the edges of anything like pain. As Elias gently worked his way down the muscles on either side of his spine, Harold began to feel dizzy, lightheaded, too warm -- to the point where if Elias had offered him a drink earlier, he would now be suspecting that it had been tampered with. But this didn’t seem to be chemical in nature… or, at least, only chemicals that his body produced naturally.

He didn’t feel pain, or even discomfort anymore (at least, not _physical_ discomfort); there was no reason to make use of the safe words, to get Elias to stop or even slow down. All he could do, right now, was relax into the sensations of Elias’s hands massaging his back, his shoulders, his upper arms.

Elias hummed. “There we go. Nothing’s going to hurt you here.”

A shiver ran through Harold’s body, and Elias chuckled lightly.

“Why?” Harold managed. He wanted to make it a fuller sentence, like _Why are you doing this?_ but it was too hard to string words together right now, either mentally or physically.

“Well,” Elias mused, still squeezing along his arms, as far as the sleeves would let him, “this is, partly, to establish _some_ level of trust between us. Didn’t seem likely to work if I just tried to play nice; you’d know it was an act. And you really have no reason to see me as trustworthy. I understand that; after everything I’ve done, I _deserve_ that. But this…” He sighed, his hands working their way up toward Harold’s shoulders again. “Humans need touch, and you definitely look like the type who doesn’t get very much of it. Am I wrong?”

Harold’s head was muddled enough that he couldn’t figure out whether that was acceptable information to share, so he just stayed quiet, focused on pulling air in and letting it out again.

“I’ve learned a lot about you today, Harold,” Elias continued. “I can see how we might get along. Not always, but… enough. Mutual benefit. Getting to know you is going to be a distinct pleasure -- you’re clearly a man _worth_ knowing.”

The hands pulled out from under his shirt, and he heard Elias walk off, still talking.

“You were willing to go through with the deal at great personal cost, which confirms for me that you’re a kind of martyr… knotted up inside, trying to make up for some great failure in your past. Believe me, I know the type.” There was a light click, then a sound that Harold couldn’t identify -- and a slick, wet sound that he found a little alarming. But Elias’s voice just continued at the same unhurried pace. “Now, some martyrs, they give up everything they have, donate it all to the poor; why should they have luxuries while others lack necessities? Some of them make privation into a form of penance, denying themselves all kinds of pleasure out of some twisted idea that it helps make up for the wrongs they’ve done. Or that they don’t deserve to have pleasure in the first place. I’ve gotten a hint of that from John.

“But _you_ , now… you’ve got that suit.”

And then, Elias’s hands were back on his skin, slipping up under his shirt again, spreading oil as they worked over the same spots as before: back, shoulders, upper arms. At first, the oil was slightly cool, but soon enough it began to heat up, a soothing warmth across his skin.

“The suit, now, _that_ intrigues me,” Elias said. “I can’t say that I have any experience with high-class clothing, but I know enough to spot when it’s out of my league. The kind that investors wear. And fairly new, and in good repair, so it’s not the last thing you bought for yourself before getting a martyr’s complex. I did consider whether you might have bought it just to impress me, get a better hand in negotiations, maybe convey that you have more money than you actually have… but suits like that take _time_ to make. And you’re not the least uncomfortable or unfamiliar with it -- in fact, getting you _out_ of it is the part that makes you squirm. No, that’s yours… and, while I’ve only seen the one, I’m guessing” -- he began to carefully tug the shirt down Harold’s arms -- “you have quite a few of them.”

The shirt pulled Harold’s arms back a bit, a new rush of alarm from the constriction -- but then the first sleeve was sliding free from his hand, and the other soon followed. As Elias tucked the blanket around his arms again, Harold shivered, not from cold: Outside of medical examinations and surgeries, he hadn’t been this naked with another person since he’d had to leave Grace.

Getting back to the massage, Elias hummed again. “This suit you brought today, now… not quite as good. Doesn’t match your body the same way. New, though. So, maybe you bought it today, or yesterday. Off the rack, got a few seams repositioned. Just for our little get-together.” He paused, hands still kneading Harold’s upper arms. “Did you think that a top-of-the-line suit was part of the attraction for me? You wouldn’t exactly be _wrong_ , but… it’s really not about the _suit_. It’s about what the suit implies about your character: That’s what made me take notice. You could have come in a t-shirt and jeans today, and it would’ve been fine.” His hands moved up to Harold’s shoulders. “Can’t really picture you in jeans, though.”

When Elias’s hands slid up to gently squeeze the back of Harold’s neck, Harold sucked in a sudden, panicky breath. Elias instantly released him, but kept his hands there -- without the slightest pressure.

“Traffic lights,” Elias’s voice came, so close to Harold’s ear that he felt the warmth of his breath.

“Ye-yellow,” Harold gasped, and the hands left immediately. Seconds later, there came the sound of a chair being scooted along the floor, until it was right next to the table; Harold couldn’t see it, but he was aware of Elias sitting down.

“All right,” Elias said, calmly. “You’re doing well, Harold. So far, I’m very pleased. What needs to change?”

“Ah--” Harold swallowed. “I-I thought… yellow just meant to slow down.”

“I’m stopping long enough to be sure of what I’m doing,” Elias said. “I don’t know your body or your reactions well enough to adjust on the fly. As I said, I don’t intend to hurt you, so if you need me to be more careful, I need to know exactly how to change.”

Closing his eyes, Harold considered, briefly, whether this was simply a way to suss out the details of his disabilities. But how could Elias avoid doing harm if Harold refused to be honest about his injuries?

“I have pins in my neck,” Harold admitted, finally. “I can’t turn my head very far, or bend my neck very much.”

“Mmm.” Elias was silent for a moment. “I assume, then, that I can still work with it, but have to take it slow and be careful with how much pressure I use… avoid pushing on your neck or your head? Is that correct?”

“I… I think so. I haven’t had any sort of massage since I-- since the injury.”

“I appreciate you being clear about this,” Elias said; the chair scraped back across the floor, and his hands found Harold’s neck again, applying cautious, gentle pressure with two knuckles on each side, the rhythm like a kitten kneading. Slowly, Harold felt the tension in his neck dissipate -- not entirely, but noticeably.

“Why are you doing this?” he murmured, as his head seated itself more firmly in the hollow of the pillow, no longer held that little bit aloft. “I don’t understand.”

Elias chuckled lightly. “Are you good at reading people, Harold? Well, ordinary people, I mean -- not the type who are schooled in how to disguise their true selves.” His hands traveled down to Harold’s shoulders again for a final firm squeeze before leaving, but he kept talking as he walked back to his supplies. “I wasn’t that good at it when I was young. Trusting. Naïve. Had to learn fast, after my father tried to have me killed.”

There was a long pause, as Harold assimilated that information -- and he would have thought that Elias had gone silent for that reason alone, except that when Elias continued, there was a note of unresolved emotion in his voice, which he seemed to be struggling to bring back under control. “There are precious few people in my life whom I can truly trust. And I value that loyalty above all else. Anthony, for example, he’d take a bullet for me. Instantly. Wouldn’t even pause to think. I would do the same for him.”

This time, Elias began with Harold’s calf muscles, kneading carefully through the wool of his trousers. It wasn’t easy for Harold to accept that there was nothing sinister about the act, but he did _try_ to let his body relax.

“You seem to have engendered that kind of loyalty in John, and I respect that. It’s rare. Guys like Massey, they rule by fear, but you and I?” He huffed. “When John’s life was on the line, you offered your own. Approached a man you can’t trust,” he continued, punctuating with firmer pressure, “a man who _frightens_ you… and, despite your misgivings, willingly gave him a great deal of power over you. All to ensure that your partner wasn’t in over his head. Whatever loyalty John has for you, you’ve more than earned it.”

Moving down to Harold’s feet, Elias began gently bending and stretching them, one at a time. “I got some impression of you from how John talks about you, from how readily he follows your lead, but… I had to _see_ you and _test_ you to get the full picture. And I like what I see. Not at all what I expected -- which is, of course, what fascinates me. But I still got a good read, I think, at least for starters.”

Harold stayed silent. If Elias were fishing for additional information at this point, all Harold could hope was that his physical reactions wouldn’t betray any details that he needed to keep secret.

“When I made the offer,” Elias went on, squeezing around Harold’s ankle, “I had some expectations, of course, and some goals. Mostly, I wanted to figure you out -- get a better idea of what sort of asset you might be in the future. How far I could push you, for one. But I wasn’t lying when I said that I wanted a chance to unwind, or that it’s been decades since I enjoyed this kind of physical pleasure. And when I looked you over, I saw a man who, aside from the suits and the manicure, doesn’t invest a lot in his physical well-being. So, today, this is about forcing you to relax for a bit.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of Elias’s breath, as well as Harold’s own, and occasional slick sounds from the massage itself.

“That… doesn’t explain why you’re doing this,” Harold said finally. “You say physical pleasure, but” -- but then he cut off with a moan as Elias found a particularly tight portion of his upper thigh and began working it over.

“Do you mean, what pleasure am I getting from giving _you_ a massage?” The pressure slowly increased, working out the knot; Harold anticipated pain, but none came. “There’s an inherent pleasure in physical touch,” Elias explained. “Humans are hard-wired to enjoy it. Skin contact prompts the body to lower stress hormones, increase production of oxytocin; it even activates the part of the brain that responds to sweets.” He sighed. “In our society, though, people have gotten the idea that intimate physical contact _has_ to be sexual. So our options for human contact are fairly… limited, and, aside from sexual or romantic partners, constrained to commercial or ritual contexts. More so in certain sub-cultures.

“Anthony, for example… like I said, he’d take a bullet for me, topple empires at my command, but this… it would be too much to ask of him. A strike against his masculinity, either giving _or_ receiving. And it’s not logical, but… it is what it is. I understand that about him, and I would never test his loyalty in such a way.”

“Then…” Harold tried to put the details together, but he still couldn’t work it out. “Then I’m just a… convenient… human body?”

“Eh, yes and no. Like I said before, I hope this will amount to mutual benefit; you really do seem like you could use more human touch than you’re getting. And since you were willing to go so far as to have sex you didn’t want, I figure you don’t have the same inherent cultural biases as Anthony does… or, at least, that you can push past them in a way he can’t. If you had reacted differently, or balked at the sexual component when it came time to put your words into action, today might’ve gone in a different direction. But here we are.”

He slid his hands back up to Harold’s back again, and started working over the middle of his lower back and out to his hip, carefully pressing out the tension that had built up from Harold’s limp.

“Yellow!” Harold gasped, and the hands went away again. “Ah, I, ah…” It was hard to gather himself. “Ah… lower back injury. Spinal fusion. Just… be careful.”

“All right. You’re doing fine. Let me know if anything hurts,” Elias said, and returned to the area, going slower and with a lighter touch. “So,” he said after a moment, “the original deal was eight hours with you, intimately, and this is the kind of intimacy I meant. Today, I’m showing you how to do it -- how it feels to be on the receiving end, and some of the ways to avoid harm. Next time, you’ll have your hands on _me_. The basics are simple enough, and, even considering your limited mobility, you should be able to do most of what I want; we can work around any problems that arise. If you’d like to put a little research into it, feel free to invest some time, but it’s not required. As long as you show up for all four sessions, you will have fulfilled your part of the bargain, regardless.”

“Then… the sexual implication was entirely a ruse?”

“Well,” Elias said thoughtfully, “if you were interested, I can’t say that I’d necessarily refuse. I’m straight, in case you were wondering, but, well… there _is_ such a thing as situational sexuality, and the act of sex does have its physical benefits in stress relief and so on. With you, I’d be able to let my guard down, and that’s a rare pleasure in the world I’ve created for myself.” His hands paused for a moment. “Even so, I don’t _need_ it, and I certainly don’t care for an unwilling partner. I’ve gone twenty-odd years without sex; I can manage a few more.”

That much was settled, then. The spectre of sexual contact -- not exactly coerced, but neither exactly freely given -- had kept Harold on the alert since before he’d arrived, but that mental and physical tension could finally dissipate. The relief felt oddly… disjointed. Shaky, and like he suddenly couldn't get enough air.

“Traffic lights,” Elias murmured, and Harold realized that he wasn’t being touched anymore.

“What?”

“What color, Harold? Are you in pain?”

“Ah -- n-no, I’m--” But his shoulders felt tense again. And his next breath sounded like--

“You appear to be crying,” Elias said, close to his ear again. “It’s not from pain?”

Somehow unable to form words again, he tried to shake one hand, but it was tangled in the blanket. He struggled to pull it loose.

Instantly, Elias freed him. “Do you need to tap out?” he asked, laying one hand on Harold’s upper arm.

“No,” Harold managed, waving his hand. “I’m-- it’s--”

He was sniffling, he realized. Loudly. And those shaky breaths were coming in faster, uncontrollably -- like his body was getting ready to sob.

Under normal circumstances, he knew that he would have felt mortified -- and terrified, because if he couldn’t control his physical reactions, then how well could he keep the rest of his secrets hidden? It was a point of vulnerability that he could ill afford.

Now, though -- for whatever reason -- all he could think was: _Elias wanted intimacy_. And what was more intimate than allowing your emotions to surface while with another human being? Letting out more than just the socially acceptable, carefully restrained reactions?

So he gave up any thought of fighting it, and, as Elias gently rubbed his back, he let the tears flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings**  
>  Dubious consent -- to touching (although sex, as a topic, shows up in Harold's thoughts and a little of the dialog). Harold has agreed to do as Elias commands, even though it's something he doesn't want to do (as I pointed out in _[The Great Mistake](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11866476)_ , you can consent to things you don't want to do). However, given the circumstances of the original deal, it's not without questions as far as coercion.
> 
> Anxiety. Not quite a panic attack, but some strong emotions brought on by a variety of factors, which get a bit out of Harold's control, especially near the end of the chapter.
> 
> The position Harold is in for the bulk of this chapter might be troubling for some: Face-down on a makeshift massage table, his face in a hole cut out of a pillow (allowing him to breathe, and supporting his neck, but he feels a bit claustrophobic), with the blanket tucked around his arms so he's a little constrained.
> 
> Elias discusses, again, one of my pet peeves with modern Western society: the idea that intimacy must be sexual in nature. In particular, physical intimacy. There's a little… maybe not homophobia _per se_ , but that “men don't touch other men, it makes them unmanly” idea. As if giving pain is somehow more honorable and manly than giving pleasure or relieving distress. Ah well.
> 
> Oh, and Elias says that he's open to sex outside his own orientation, on account of his lack of normal options. I wasn't expecting that, honestly, but it made sense when I was writing that section.
> 
> In case it matters: Harold keeps his trousers on the whole time. He does get divested of his shirt, though. There's not much focus on him being half-naked, except for how he feels to be that naked.
> 
> I think I've hit a good usage of safe words, and a caring Top, given the scenario's foundation of dubious consent and Harold's acceptance and surrender (despite not wanting to be touched or have his clothes taken off, he consents to both of these). “Forcing you to relax” is an interesting concept.
> 
> Mention of Canon Details: Murder, including a spoiler-y detail of Elias's past (shown in S1E19 Flesh and Blood). The ferry bombing, and the aftereffects on Harold.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope to finish this fic eventually, but it's low priority compared to other fics. I expect I'll get around to finishing _Touch_ (chapter four, by my numbering system), then put the rest of the fic on hiatus. But we'll see.


End file.
